Dishes
by Uriel Falcon
Summary: I swing open the door and stare right into her blue eyes. Part two of the three parter, first entitled 'Stairs'. POST NESTING DOLLS. femmeslash


Dishes

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI or any of its characters. POST NESTING DOLLS.  
This is the secondary piece to a three part series, the first piece entitled 'Stairs'.

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I can't hide that I'm angry; it would be a silly lie if I said I was perfectly fine. I'm more concerned about what I let slip to Grissom. I suppose I really did need a helping hand, somebody to finally confide a piece of my hated history in. Or maybe I was just so caught up in emotion and too drunk to contain it any longer. I just hope Grissom doesn't get the wrong idea.

I look around my home. I can't believe that since Grissom left I've downed this many beers. I didn't even realize I was drinking them. I figure that's my problem; I do things without even thinking about them. But one thing I don't have to think about is how I will NOT apologize to Catherine. I know I blew up at her, but I felt cornered, and when I become cornered I lash out. It's another thing I really have to work on.

First things first, I've got to clean up. If Grissom comes back I don't particularly want to explain how eleven beer bottles were emptied and strewn about my apartment. Odd thing is; I don't even feel drunk. Is that the first sign that you have a problem? My body has created a resistance to the toxic of alcohol. I really have to quit. My thoughts are backed up even more as I load each bottle back into the case by the door, ready to return them for the empties refund.

I should really do the dishes, it's another thing I've forgotten to do. I walk over to my sink and put in the plug, turning the water faucets until I got a suitable temperature. Hot, but not hot enough to scold. I've never really found the point in using gloves when washing the dishes. Most women I know complain that the hot water makes their skin hard or scratchy. I can picture Catherine with the oversized yellow gloves, scrubbing away at the remnants of dinner's meatloaf. Or more likely, telling Lindsey to load everything into the dishwasher and start it up. That sounds more like Catherine, teaching her daughter responsibility and cleanliness.

I guess that's something I had to learn on my own. The B&B was a wretched place. It started out clean enough, but after a few years of beatings, drinking, drugs and negligence, the B&B became a lot like my life. It was a hellhole. A place where even the outside world could see what the hell was wrong with us. The only clean place I remember in my home was my room. Well, I wouldn't have called it a room. I would have called it an attic with air holes. My brother was lucky to have been old enough to escape.

I haven't talked to him in a while; I really should get around to finding him. The last I memory I have of him was watching him leave; and not take me with him. It hurt at the time, like the sound of me scrubbing at this plate with a Brillo® pad hurts. It's a sharp, screeching reminder that I wasn't good enough to follow him. For some reason, though, I don't think that was the case. I think he left me there because he knew I might have a chance. Foster care wouldn't have worked for him, he was too old. But I wasn't. I was just too messed up.

I wonder what Catherine went through when she was younger. We all have our stories, but maybe hearing her story would make mine slightly easier to handle. Or it would just show that it could have been easier, or worse, for that matter. I know she was a stripper, but she had her reasons. Did my mother have her reasons? I never had a chance to ask, considering she died in prison. I went and visited her once; that wasn't a very smart idea. She said that she did it because she just couldn't take being smacked around anymore.

I scrub another plate clean and set it in the other side of the sink to be rinsed off. If my mother only did murdered him because she couldn't take it anymore, did she want to save us, too? Did she care for us, or were we just another way to avoid a beating? I can't tell, because I'm not a mother. I don't think Catherine would ever do something just for herself without thinking of Lindsey. She's a good mother, I'll give her that. I wish I had a mother like her; Lindsey doesn't know how lucky she is. Doing the dishes as a child was the least of my worries. I guess that's why school came so easily… I had no time for homework, so I had to be able to understand it faster than others.

I start to work on the glasses. There aren't too many of those, so this should go by fairly fast. I don't get a lot of company; therefore I don't have a lot of glasses. Catherine probably gets a lot of company, she seems like she'd be a great hostess. At times I wish I had her charisma, the ability to simply interact with people on an easier basis. And then at other times, I hope I never become that flirty, that open or that powerful. Sometimes hiding in the shadows is easier than gliding in the light. I suppose I have to give her credit for that.

Last of all is my cutlery. Forks always seem to remind me of the time my father pinned my hand to the table with a fork. I think I was seven or eight years old. Hmph, I guess he didn't like the roast. There were a lot of things he didn't like. One of them included me and everything I did. I guess that's why he always punished me at the end of every day. I hated my life, sometimes I still do, and I remember wishing that I could just turn back the hands of time and not be born at all. At least that way I wouldn't get raped, beaten and oppressed every day of my life. I wish I had a childhood to really remember. That's a pretty sad thought, eh?

Next on the list are spoons… I use a lot of spoons; mostly for stirring up my coffee. I know how Catherine takes her coffee; milk and two sugar packets; it's the only way she gets through her day. I take mine black with three sugar packets; it gives me a turbo boost. I don't think she knows how I take my coffee. I honestly don't think anyone but Greg knows, and that's only because we discussed it one day. I miss the days where my colleagues were my friends. I miss the days where they missed me when I was gone, the days when they knew my age and wished me happy birthday when they saw me.

I guess Sofia misses that, too. I should really make a conscious effort to be nicer to her. When I get back from my 'vacation' I think I'll start on that right away. She seems nice enough; I didn't really give her a fair chance. I don't think Catherine did, either.

And now I come to the knives… I get the shivers every time I look at a knife with a black handle. But of course, no one will know that other than maybe Grissom, if he really paid any attention to my reactions. I hate the pity look I know I'll get now. Maybe that's why I never tell anyone about this; the look is unbearable. I scrub at another knife, and for some inane reason I hold it up to the light afterwards. It's as though my very reflection morphs into my father, the monster that made me who I am. Or was it my own actions that created me? Am I a product of my actions or a product of my environment? Are my genes laced with violence thick as the blood that splattered across the bedroom wall, or could I be free of this madness?

I put the knife down and unplug the sink, watching the water and soap suds drain away. I don't know what will become of me; sometimes I don't even remember what happened to me. But I won't become them, even if it means isolation. If I give into the pain that they caused, I'll never break away. Pfft, who am I kidding? I get a reminder that I could be a murderer every time I look into a reflective surface. His black eyes are my black eyes; his dark hair is mine. And today, I've proven that his anger is also my anger. What is becoming of me? I thought I had this beaten. I thought I could win.

I was wrong again. And Catherine saw a piece of it. Maybe it was only a sliver of what is to come, but it was enough. I can't do this much longer, it's frightening to think that I may hurt someone I've come to love. That's another one of my problems; I love Catherine Willows. What an ironic situation this is… I rinse off the dishes and put them on the rack to dry, grabbing my last beer and sitting down on my chair. I recline my head back and sigh. What am I going to do? I may not be fired but I'm pretty close to it. I already feel like I'm crunching eggshells and I haven't even started moving yet. A knock at the door breaks me out of my thoughts. I sigh and check the peep-hole.

What the hell is she doing here? Great, now I'm going to get my ass chewed out in my own home. I'm not going to let her beat me, this is ridiculous. Can't she just leave me alone?

I swing open the door and stare right into her blue eyes.

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**TBC**


End file.
